In a few days the 121st Infantry assembled in a heavily wooded area astride the main highway to Brest. A carnival spirit reigned. Some of the men came well supplied with liberated bottles of wine from Dinard, and this together with lots of good hot food, warm tents and no enemy made us feel as though we were on maneuvers back home.
We looked on small luxuries as minor miracles, so much so that we could scarcely believe the major miracle when it took place—some thoughtful magician produced hot showers! In keeping with a timetable set up for each company, we armed our-selves with cakes of soap and towels and fell in with gusto at the head of a column of men. It was a three-mile hike down a long, dusty road, but this didn’t even begin to dampen our enthusiasm.
The shower unit was typically Army. Men streamed in from various outfits all over the area, and a clock-like system had to be put into effect if every man was to get a chance. They gave each of us a number. When this came up, they ushered us into a large tent where we removed our clothes and waited, naked and impatient, until they called our number again. Thereupon we whooped with joy and rushed into the shower tent to gaze upon a long line of needlepoint showers from which the water ran at a delicious temperature.
A sergeant blew a whistle and shouted for quiet.
“All right, you guys,” he yelled, “you’ve got five minutes to take your shower and get out. The next time you hear the whistle, we expect all of you to move out on the double and make room for the next bunch.”
A chorus of groans greeted his announcement, but we knew we hardly could hope to change the rules at this stage. Instead of wasting time with idle argument, we began to soap furiously. When the whistle blew again, all too soon, we walked lingeringly under the whole length of the shower line to get the last delightful dashes of water and then wandered reluctantly into the drying tent. Though we had hoped to soak in the water until it literally came out our ears, we consoled ourselves with the fact that at least we were clean, even if we weren’t soggy.
The march back to camp was just as hot, just as long, and just as dusty as the march out, so that when we reached the company area, we neither looked nor felt like we had had a shower. But the man who was producing the miracles gave us no time to gripe about it, for no sooner had we reached our tents when an announcement came that a GI band and an all-soldier entertainment unit were on hand. It turned out to be a good show, packed with laughs which we sorely needed.
I relished the times when we were busy like this, for otherwise with time on my hands I found the loneliness overpowering and the desire for mail so strong that when the joyous shout of “Mail Call!” sounded, I wanted to hide. I had shifted from one address to another for so long that it might be weeks before any letters caught up with me. On the other hand, I knew that Eleonore had been writing every day to whatever address she thought was current and that some day all her letters would reach me in huge bundles. But I wanted them now!
Jack and I managed to get permission to revisit the area we had fought over near Dinard and take photographs of the places we had been. It turned out to be a strange and sobering experience to walk around the same fields in safety, peace, and quiet. Jack showed me the area where he had spent the days in front of the antitank obstacle, and I showed him my first foxhole.
We made our way down the path to the group of farm buildings that had been our first objective and met the owner and his family. They had just returned and were repairing the house and preparing to resume work in the fields. The farmer showed us through the buildings to point out the strongpoints Jerry had established to repulse our attack. With a prayer in my heart I quietly entered the stable and showed Jack the bloodstains on the floor where the soldier had died while I went for help.
It was hard to believe that a battle had been fought and that men had died so violently in the peaceful, sunny fields around the farm; but as we returned to our jeep, the sight of five bodies piled by the side of the road brought back the grim reality that war really had passed this way. Since Graves Registration obviously had missed these bodies, we made pencilled notes of the exact location in order that we might report it. One of the dead had been an officer in Jack’s company.
“There but for the grace of God, we might be lying,” I said to Jack.
He did not answer.
Our combat experience had given most of us the idea that we were veterans, finished products as far as the art of war is concerned. Thus our inflated egos were rudely punctured when orders came down to begin training schedules just as though we were back in basic training. At first we treated the training to bitches and groans that could have been heard on a quiet night as far as Berlin, but as I examined the idea and explained it to the men, I found myself in full agreement with it. Particularly if we stuck to the essentials required in combat. Many of the replacements who had joined the unit recently had received only a minimum of training in the States—a mere two weeks of combat obviously could not have made experts of them.
The big brass had one selling point in favor of continued training: our next battle was already in the planning stages. The other two regiments of our division, the 13th and 28th Infantry Regiments, had moved westward toward the big port city of Brest at the tip of the Brittany peninsula. Since they had experienced a fairly easy time while we were driving into Dinard, they would get the jump-off role when D-Day arrived at Brest. For the first time since arriving in France, the 121st Infantry drew the reserve assignment.
A common sight during our stay in the rest area was the heavy traffic which passed en route toward Brest. The artillery was particularly impressive. We saw guns we never thought existed except on battleships. It was interesting to note the reactions of the men to these weapons. I listened to two of them one day as they watched the traffic rumble by.
“Damn, look at the size of that pistol!” exclaimed one man as a 240mm artillery piece passed. “This next fight oughta be a lead pipe cinch if we got all that stuff behind us.”
“Son, you talk crazy,” his companion said soberly. “You ain’t been in the army long enough to know how to lace your leggins. Don’t you know they wouldn’t be sending us those things if they didn’t think Brest was going to be the toughest nut to crack on the whole damned continent of Europe?”
I wondered with some degree of trepidation which of them had the right slant.
Strange as it may sound, one part of the training I thoroughly enjoyed was the hiking. The countryside was beautiful and the marches never so strenuous that we could not enjoy the scenery as we plodded along. Standing in front of much of the scenery were the ubiquitous youngsters of France with their eternal plaintive chants:
“Cigarette pour Papa?”
“Bon-bon pour baybee?”
“Chocolat pour Mama?”
Yet our hearts were as big as our pockets. We seldom refused a request that was accompanied by the proper gesture or plaintive look, even though we suspected that the kids were a lot smarter than we gave them credit for and might be using our good will as a stepping stone to a lucrative if minor venture into the black market.
I got to know one French youngster quite well. His name was Emile, he was 12 years old, and he had a vibrant personality. Emile hated les Boches and could hardly believe that my name was pronounced exactly like this French name for the enemy. It was some time before he accepted the fact that I wasn’t joking and decided I could be his friend if he could get around the name problem by calling me Paul.
One day as we were making a hike, rain began to pelt down unmercifully. To our surprise, they treated us like fragile recruits, cut the hike short, and turned us loose to go to our tents. Drenched, I piled into my tent to dry off and had just removed my outer garments when I heard the cry, “Mail Call!” I could hear the rush of eager feet past my tent, and then I heard the happy shouts of those on whom fortune had smiled. I tried hard to disregard the sounds and was not making a bad job of it when my tent flap opened wide.
Sergeant Mazza, a grin on his face, thrust a handful of letters at me.
“What the hell’s the matter with you, lieutenant?” he asked. “Don’t you want your mail?”
He was off to his own tent before I could express the thanks that dribbled out of my mouth in a choked-up whisper.
Letters from home! Letters from Eleonore! It was a miraculous, wonderful day. The rain pelted down but the sun was shining. Everything was crazily, beautifully mixed up.
I opened the treasured letters eagerly, my hands almost trembling, and drank in every word. Though I wanted to read each of them again and again, I went to see Jack since many portions of my letters referred to things Norma and Eleonore were doing together.
As it turned out, this was a special day for Jack too, for later at another mail call, he too hit the jackpot. We squatted in my tent and read his letters, first silently, then aloud. Occasionally he had to stop and choke back the lump in his throat. It was such a happy experience, this hearing from home, that if we had not had that false pride that prevents men from enjoying life as women do, I am sure each of us would have broken down and cried on the other’s shoulder.
But we had mail from home. Now nothing could be too tough to take!
It was just as well too, for word came the next day that we were leaving, heading for Brest.
The ride toward Brest was an experience that made us forget the war and the fact that we were headed for another uncertain existence. France, so beautiful in the summer, and the Brittany peninsula, one of the more picturesque sections. The war fortunately had passed quickly through this area of Brittany and had left few tell-tale marks to indicate its heavy-footed path. In every ancient village the people gathered by the roadside to give us a liberator’s welcome. Even though countless troops had passed before us, the thrill for these people who had waited so long for freedom would not soon wear off.
As the crowds gathered, we noticed that these people were different from the other French we had seen, for the Bretons are an independent folk who pride themselves on preserving their native speech and costumes. The men wore great, broad-brimmed black hats with bows hanging down the back. The women, particularly the elderly, wore magnificent lace caps that perched on their heads with dignity, stiffly starched and spotlessly clean.
Something else changed on this trip. In most of the towns through which we had passed, the people had strewn flowers in our path, but here on the Brittany peninsula they threw handfuls of onions into our trucks. I searched at first for some caustic meaning behind this unusual offering until I saw the enthusiasm with which the men devoured the onions. Onions here were plentiful, and the natives had discovered early that the GI liked them.
One aspect of the countryside which did not change but still served to amaze me was the incredible number of religious symbols at various spots along the road. One came upon them in all parts of France, at road junctions, along forgotten country lanes, on main highways, on private farms. Some were rather impressive statues of angels or of one of the saints, sometimes of Jesus himself, while others were more simple, like the cross which had served as a landmark on my first day of combat. Because men of our Signal Corps sometimes used these shrines to support some of the thousands of miles of telephone wire they had to string, it was not uncommon to round a bend in the road and see the Lord holding a half dozen strands of wire in His outstretched hand. I liked to think He was happy doing this little bit extra to help our side win.
At the end of our journey, we were assigned tactical sectors, though we still were not to be engaged in the fighting—at least, not immediately. We were to protect the division flank against any surprise attack or penetration by German patrols.
My platoon dug in well on one flank of the regiment, where we found excellent machine gun positions among the hedgerows. But the situation was still fluid as the army massed for the attack on Brest, and artillery units arriving each day to add to our strength often went into position directly in our line of fire. We had no alternative but to shift positions.
It would take time before the drive on Brest would begin. With the main Allied armies pursuing the Germans across northern France, Brittany had become a backwash in the overall picture of the war. Most of the transportation and supplies went to support the main advance, while Brest would get only what was left. We particularly needed a stockpile of ammunition before striking the concrete fortifications which ringed the big port.
The job was not to be the 8th Division’s alone, for which we were thankful. We were to attack as part of the VIII Corps, which included also the 2nd and 29th Infantry Divisions and several Ranger Battalions. Added to this was tank support and plenty of big artillery. I heard it estimated we were to have more than 600 big guns ready to fire.
But no matter how much help, it would not be an easy job. At least that was what our intelligence officer, Bob Fay, told us.
“Jerry has a weird assortment of troops in Brest,” Bob said, “but they’re all under a tough paratrooper general named Ramcke who has a lot of backbone. What’s more, he’s got orders from Hitler himself to defend Brest to the last man.”
Pointing to a map, Bob gave us some idea of the formidable collection of obstacles, both natural and man-made, which ringed the city in what seemed an endless length and depth. Yet with the everlasting optimism of the GI, we took refuge in the fact that our regiment was still in reserve, the battle had not yet begun, and anything might happen before we got into it.
“Maybe,” a few men ventured hopefully, “the war will end before we get back in the line.”
But we weren’t awaiting miracles without preparing for reality. Each day we cleaned and oiled our guns to make sure they were in perfect condition. We constantly improved our positions.
Since we were assigned a definite flank protection mission, being in reserve outside Brest did not mean USO shows and showers. On the other hand, during this period my platoon was attached to Fox Company, so that Jack and I were able to spend a lot of time together under relatively peaceful conditions.
The good fortune of that period extended even farther when I received my first mail direct from home. Eleonore had at last received my permanent address. From that time I knew I could depend on a steady flow of mail.
One day we had visitors, Big Brass. Our regimental commander, Colonel J. R. Jeter, made an informal inspection of our positions. I was looking forward to his visit, hoping he might say a few words of praise to the men about their work at Dinard.
When the Colonel arrived, we were busy cleaning our guns according to our daily routine. As I showed him around our positions, I waited anxiously for him to unbend a trifle, in which case I intended to ask that he mention the Dinard fight. But when at last he did break down a bit, I wished he hadn’t.
I noticed that the Colonel was staring fixedly at Jerry Schwartz. Horrified, I saw that Jerry was wearing a German belt. Turning to me, the Colonel administered a first-class chewing that made me shrivel to the size of a pea. Then he spun on one heel and left without a kind word, either for me or the men.
I sat down dejectedly.
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” Mike Jukl said consolingly, “when you get to be a colonel you’ll find something more important in combat than whether or not a guy’s wearing the right belt.”
“But the Old Man’s right,” I said, a little reluctantly, “he wants us on our toes. If we slip in the little things, we’ll slip in the big things.”
But I don’t think I was very convincing.
Our positrons were the closest we had ever held to units of other types besides Infantry, and we made the most of the opportunity to get acquainted with other races of people. But the visits only aroused our envy and made it all too apparent what a gap existed between the Infantry and the other branches. True, every unit in the army experiences a certain amount of real or potential danger, but when most of them were not actually engaged at their job, they had many of the comforts of home right along with them. Outside of the Infantry, men almost always were able to find blankets at night when it got cold, food when they were hungry, water when they wanted to drink. Their vehicles carried extra rations, small stoves, and other comforts we could only dream about.
Often one of the comforts was a radio.
When I first heard music wafting across our positions, it drew me like a magnet. It came from a radio belonging to a nearby artillery unit. It had been so long since I had heard music that I sat before the set entranced. Yet as I listened I discovered that the music filled me with a nostalgia that was hard to control. Thoughts of home danced before my eyes. I hated the Germans, the war, everything that kept me away from home. They played one tune I had never heard before, and as I listened I thought I could hear Eleonore singing it to me.
“Goodnight, wherever you are.
May your dreams be pleasant dreams, wherever you are.
If only one little wish that I wish comes true,
I pray that the angels will watch over you.
Goodnight, wherever you are.
I’ll be with you dear no matter how near or jar.
With all my heart I pray everything is all right.
Wherever you are … goodnight.” [1]
With the song finished, I had to leave. I mumbled something to the men about thanks, I’d enjoyed listening, maybe I’d g( back sometime. Then I turned and almost ran all the way back to my foxhole where I poured out my thoughts in a long letter home.
It was not long after that when the planes began to bombard the defenses of Brest and the big guns opened fire. Nor was it long before the One-Two-One got ready to join the fight. Jerry was being stubborn. We would have to help.
I slung an extra box of ammunition under my arm as the column moved out through a dark night. But my thoughts were far away from the business of going into battle, and in my ear and in my heart the sound of the big guns served only to provide a deep accompaniment as Eleonore sang a song she probably didn’t even know existed. Stumbling down the highway, I stare moodily into black space and listened to a wonderful, comforting; phantom voice that consoled and pleased me…
With all my heart I pray everything is all right.
Wherever you are…goodnight.